Chiaroscuro
by s1ncer1ty
Summary: When Sirius Black is sent to 'lie low' at Remus Lupin's for a while, both discover that the more things change, the more they stay the same. Old friends must put aside mistrust and pride, if they are to survive the coming hardships. Sirius/Remus
1. ~ 1~

"Chiaroscuro"  
  
by s1ncer1ty  
  
Author's Notes: Hey, my first finished HP fanfic! I've been fairly hooked on Remus and Sirius as of late, and this is one of the things I managed to come up with. Fairly plotless, mostly character study. A little slashy, particularly in part two, but it's a cute kind of slash. There's some fluff, some angst. Flamers will be fed to the boggart 'neath the sink.  
  
Pairing: Sirius/Remus  
  
~*~  
  
now i'm relieved to hear  
  
that you've been to some far-out places  
  
it's hard to carry on when you feel all alone  
  
now i've swung back down again,  
  
it's worse than it was before  
  
if i hadn't seen such riches  
  
i could live with being poor  
  
~~ James, "Sit Down"  
  
~*~  
  
Despite the dark swirl of thoughts that race through my head, I feel as if I may have found the very 'heaven' that Muggles speak of in their search for enlightenment. Even as I race against time to complete my mission, I simply cannot help but savor the sensation of the wind whipping the hair from my face as I ride atop the broad, firm back of Buckbeak the Hippogriff. This is true freedom, and it is mine.  
  
But I cannot let myself become distracted -- the coming days threaten the lives of us all in the wizarding community, and this meeting is indeed one of the most critical if Albus Dumbledore's plan is to come to fruition. My instructions had been simple: alert the "old crowd." Lie low at Remus Lupin's. Await further direction.  
  
I have already sent word to Arabella Figg and Mundungus Fletcher, part of the "old crowd" that Dumbledore spoke of. As I contemplate the actions I must take in the near-term future, I absently finger the parchment concealed within the folds of my cloak, feeling the rough paper and the hardened wax seal charmed so that only one man may open it. Dumbledore's instructions to Remus, himself.  
  
Buckbeak spies the small cottage, hidden through weak Muggle-warding spells in the shire of Nottingham, before I do, and I grab twin fistfuls of feathers in my hands as he dives quite suddenly beneath the thick evening fog cover. Instinctively, apprehension rises in me as we spiral into plain view; yet I know enough of Hippogriffs and of Buckbeak's own temperament that to question his actions would be horribly offensive to him. I close my eyes, huddle fast against the Hippogriff's back, making myself as small as possible against the great creature, and praying against all odds that we are not seen.  
  
Upon landing, I find that my fears are unwarranted, as Remus' abode is miles from the nearest village, Muggle or otherwise, set deep within an alcove of Nottingham's forest. The house is small, painfully small, and appearing to be nothing but a shamble of loose siding and a crumbling roof. Secluded, inconspicuous, much like the Remus I'd known years ago at Hogwart's. Yet the windows glow with a welcoming magical light from the inside, providing an easy view of an impeccably kept interior.  
  
Dismounting from Buckbeak, I give him the last of the rationed meat that Dumbledore has sent along with me as appeasement for having to tether him to a nearby tree. I rest my hand against Buckbeak's flank in silent thanks, and the Hippogriff glares impassively at me as he tears into the meat with his sharp beak.  
  
I make my way towards the house on silent feet, and through a warmly lit window I spot a gaunt figure within -- a slip of a man clad in fraying brown robes, sitting in an aging chair with a tortoiseshell cat in his lap and a leather-bound book in his hand. For a moment, I stand at the base of the porch stairs and stare at this silent peace, knowing that it may be one of the last quiet moments for this man.  
  
~Moony, it's been too long. And I hate to have to do this to you...~  
  
With a sad shake of my head, I dash up the stairs. I have no time for hesitation -- pushing aside all regrets and fears, I give three loud knocks upon the door.  
  
For several moments, nothing but a chilling silence reaches my ears. I am about to knock again when the firm voice of Remus Lupin demands, "Who's there?"  
  
"Remus, it's me." I pause for a moment, debating whether or not to give him my true name. Ultimately deciding to err on the side of caution, even in the middle of nowhere, I reluctantly add, "Padfoot."  
  
Another stretch of silence on the other end, and I lace my arms across my chest as I try to keep the impatience at bay. Finally, Remus' voice again filters through the door. "You have to knock the secret knock."  
  
I don't know whether to laugh or break down the door. I settle upon biting my lower lip to stifle either chuckles or obscenities from my lips, and I curl my fingers into a fist once again and rap my knuckles against the door in a series of long and short knocks. It is a code we'd created for ourselves while we were student's at Hogwart's -- mad Marauders with a penchant for mischief and a need for childlike secrecy.  
  
Halfway through the sequence I pause mid-knock and realize with frustration that there's no way in hell I'm remembering a secret code created aeons ago.  
  
"I forget the secret knock," I growl. "Let me in already, Remus. It's cold out here!"  
  
A series of locks spring open, and the door opens inward, revealing the inside of Remus Lupin's home, just as small on the inside as it is on the outside but also just as cozy and welcoming. He stands on the other side of the door, his wand at the ready. I don't blame him for his caution. These are rough times, indeed. As I enter and he can discern that it's truly me, he slips his wand back into his robes and shuts the door against the cold.  
  
"I probably wouldn't have opened the lock if you had managed to remember," Remus says, smiling lightly and pulling me into a brotherly embrace.  
  
"I'll bet you don't even remember the secret knock, yourself," I return mildly, bringing my frustration into check. Though I do slap him on the back hard enough to wind him. "Not to mention the fact that I'd blast the door off the hinges if you didn't let me in."  
  
Remus laughs faintly as he releases me, running a hand through his hair -- once a light shade of brown, now almost completely shot through with grey. "You should have sent an owl ahead to let me know you were coming."  
  
"There was no time, and I couldn't secure a proper owl. This is to you, from Dumbledore. It probably explains the situation," I say, the joking tone fading into one much more serious as I reach inside my cloak and hand him the scroll sealed in magic and wax with Albus Dumbledore's insignia. "It's started again, Remus."  
  
Remus slides his left thumb beneath the seal and carefully skims over the neat calligraphy from Hogwart's headmaster. As I watch the steel grey of his eyes flicker across the page, the bags beneath his eyes seem to deepen, the hollows in his cheeks appearing almost gaunter. If he'd been worse for wear in his time as Defense Against Dark Arts professor at Hogwart's, the subsequent year has harrowed him even further.  
  
But the trepidation brought by Dumbledore's letter is quickly bottled and replaced with a quiet acceptance typical of my old friend. Giving no indication of what the old headmaster may have told him, nor the extent of the message's urgency, Remus rolls the parchment back into a neat tube, and his eyes again flash up to meet with mine. "Well, then. You're cold. Would you like some tea?"  
  
"Do you have anything stronger? I think we both need it," I say with a light snort.  
  
An odd expression clouds over Remus' face, brows furrowing and lips tightening as if he were in pain. The confusion must be evident in my own expression, as he whispers, quickly and dismissively, "Some things never change." Clearing his throat, he adds, "I might have some whiskey, but I can't guarantee anything."  
  
I place my hands within pockets in the folds of my cloak and merely grunt as Remus turns and leads the way down a narrow hallway. At the end of the hallway is a kitchen -- claustrophobic, stuffy, and crawling with useless Muggle artifacts. Uncomfortably, I stand in the doorway and stare at Remus' back as he busies himself with preparing our drinks.  
  
"Of course you're welcome to stay." Remus rustles through the cabinet topping the rusted Muggle stove, and produces a slender flask filled a quarter of the way with an amber liquid. "Though it probably would have been more polite if Professor Dumbledore had asked me first."  
  
Incredulously wondering how he can remain so calm, so impassive, I snap, "You don't understand, Remus. The war is most likely starting all over again. Voldemort again has form! There's no telling what will happen to Harry now that --"  
  
"Easy, Sirius, easy," he says with a strained smile at the mention of the Dark Lord. A casual flick of the slim rowan wand in his left hand, and two mugs find their way before him. "You know as well as I do that Harry is in good hands with Dumbledore. And I certainly don't take offense to his asking that you remain for a while here. It will be nice," he adds softly, pouring a small amount of the flask's contents into each mug, "to catch up with you on less stressful terms."  
  
Closing my eyes, I can merely nod as I recall the last meeting with my old friend Remus Lupin, when we'd each been forced to come to terms with the betrayal not of each other -- as we'd both thought for the past thirteen years -- but of Peter Pettigrew. The night ended badly beneath the full moon, with Remus fallen slave to the moon's lure, Peter escaping to rejoin his Dark Master, and myself nearly thrown to the wiles of the Azkaban Dementors. Hardly a joyous reunion, to say the least.  
  
Yet now, with the return of Voldemort to power, the assassination of an innocent Hufflepuff boy and the near-death of my godson Harry Potter, and a situation so dire that I must work in peace with that greasy traitor Severus Snape, I wonder if my future meetings with Remus Lupin are to be forever cursed to misery.  
  
"I wouldn't say these terms are any less stressful," I grumble.  
  
"Yes, but they are, for the time being, less urgent. Now, if you're going to be staying here, you have to promise me one thing, at the very least," Remus says absently as he moves to sit at a small table settled in a corner of the kitchen.  
  
"What's that?" I ask, almost suspiciously, pulling out the chair directly across from him and arching an eyebrow.  
  
He turns to me for a brief second, and suddenly the strained grin upon his lips softens into an easy one. "Don't open the cabinet beneath the sink. I have a boggart taking up residence there, and it wouldn't do to have you startling him."  
  
"I know how to handle a boggart," I say defensively.  
  
"Sirius." The grin fades from Remus' face. "I've built up a lot of trust with that boggart, and I don't want him turning into a Dementor -- or worse -- in my house. At least when he changes for me, he's controllable in the shape of the moon."  
  
"Yes, well," I mutter, turning my eyes towards the mug. By the smell of it, it isn't whiskey inside, although it probably packs just as strong a punch. "It's your house."  
  
Remus chuckles faintly, either oblivious to or completely ignoring my ill ease, and nudges his mug towards mine. "To old friends, eh, Sirius?"  
  
"To ~trusted~ friends," I return, touching the rim of my mug to his.  
  
Together, we down the shot of some alcoholic substance I cannot identify. It's almost cinnamony in flavor, with an aftertaste of lemon, and it warms me to my toes immediately. As it slides into my stomach, it reminds me of a similar need, as my aching belly rumbles with the hunger of a man forced to hunt rats and severely ration any proper human food for weeks.  
  
"Listen, Remus, do you have anything to eat?" I ask.  
  
Remus looks up quickly from his drink, eyes widening and a hint of color tingeing his cheeks. "Oh. Yes, of course I do."  
  
Feeling briefly well enough to hazard a joking tone reminiscent of my childhood days, I remark, "Would you mind terribly if I were to raid your pantry?"  
  
But Remus pushes back his chair and starts to his feet, almost dashing to the other side of the kitchen. "Let me," he says quickly. He throws open the door to his pantry, the hinges squeaking with rust. "Would you like some crackers with cheese, perhaps?"  
  
"Do you have any meat?" I ask, watching him with a raised brow.  
  
Remus pauses for a moment to think, and then emerges from his pantry with several thin slices of bread and what looks to be preserved ham. A swift wave of his wand is all it takes for him to create two sandwiches, which he brings to the table and pushes before me with a quickly murmured, "I have no mayonnaise. I remember you used to like the horrid stuff."  
  
"That's no matter," I say, taking a large bite of one of the sandwiches. "It's been almost a day since I've eaten. Right now, anything is good."  
  
"Yes," he says mildly. "I do know that feeling."  
  
Even as I devour the sandwiches placed before me, the glimmer of sadness alighting in Remus' eyes as he watches me eat does not escape my attention, nor does the longing in his gaze as he periodically peeks to my rapidly disappearing supper.  
  
~*~  
  
I never turn down an invitation if it offers something I desire. Perhaps it's selfish of me, but I believe that, if presented, the invitation is genuine and not just noted out of politeness. So when Remus offers me the bed for the night, while he gathers sufficient blankets to pad the floor for himself, I do not refuse him.  
  
I hadn't thought that the soft luxury of the warm duvet or the spring of an actual mattress would cause my back to ache and my skin to itch incessantly. As Remus sleeps peacefully in a huddle beside the bed, I lie awake listening to the sound of my heartbeat within my ears, twisting in an unfamiliar comfort when I know I deserve to shiver within a stone cave, or huddle in the damp leaves beneath a Muggle's porch.  
  
But most of all, it is the darkness of the room that bothers me, the shadows lurking within the corners that coalesce into fearful shapes reminiscent of the hooded Dementors of Azkaban. Taking care not to tread upon Remus, I pad towards the window and slide open the vertical blinds. Outside, Buckbeak lies under the tree to which he is tethered, his head tucked beneath an oversized wing. I feel an irrepressible urge to join Buckbeak, lying huddled against him under the watch of a silvery moon almost completely full in its cycle.  
  
"Sirius?"  
  
I turn from the window towards the sleepy-voiced whisper, and see the reflection of the three-quarter moon shimmering within Remus' widened grey eyes. "What is it?"  
  
"Would you mind closing the blinds?"  
  
I lick my lips, remembering full well Remus' aversion to the moon, particularly as it grows steadily closer to full... Yet at the same time I struggle against my own tremors at shutting out all light completely, as his small room seems almost as black and confined as my former cell at Azkaban. "I don't want it to be totally dark," I finally grumble with a large degree of reluctance.  
  
Remus pushes himself upright on his elbows and reaches across to the table beside his bed, where our wands sit side by side. His own wand of rowan finds its way into his hand almost instinctively, and he points it towards the ceiling. "~Lumos~," he murmurs gently, and ceiling illuminates in a muted, yellow light.  
  
Immediately, the room seems almost to expand, the shadow of the Dementor in the corner instead revealed to be merely Remus' shabby robes strewn across a chair, the bars on the windows really just the silhouette of the vertical blinds. Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, I close the shade and spare no further glance to the face of the moon.  
  
"Is that better?" Remus murmurs, settling back within his nest of blankets upon the ground, curling his back to the hidden moon.  
  
"Much," I say, and crawl back beneath the covers. "Thank you."  
  
"Thank ~you~," he responds thickly. By the sound of his voice, he's almost completely asleep once again.  
  
Yet even with the extra light, I find sleep a long time in coming. For a time, I content myself with counting heartbeats, counting the cracks in the crumbling ceiling. Shifting onto my opposite side for the fifth time in as many minutes, I lean over the edge of the bed to gaze down at Remus -- his troubled face now relaxed, appearing almost innocent beneath the soft, magical light that dances across the ceiling.  
  
I watch him for some time -- the faint breaths, the twitching of his eyelids in the throes of dreams, the strands of rapidly greying hair that fall atop his eyes -- before I finally thrust aside my blankets and vault to my feet. Circling the bed, I kneel at Remus' side, and, laying a hand upon his shoulder, I give him a gentle shake.  
  
"Remus? Hey, Remus, wake up," I insist, finding him as hard to rouse now as he had been while we were together at school over ten years ago.  
  
After a second, less-than-gentle shake, Remus makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and turns to me, his grey eyes cracking vaguely open, and he stares at me sleepily. "Is everything okay, Padfoot?"  
  
"Take the bed, Remus. I'll be just as fine on the floor," I murmur, frowning at the nickname I'd sought to leave behind in Azkaban.  
  
But Remus doesn't bother to move, and instead gives me a faint smile -- as if to say, 'I understand' -- lifting the edge of the covers beside him. I hesitate at first, before accepting his invitation and crawling beneath the blankets. The floor is hard, but the space beside Remus is warm. Companionable.  
  
He turns from me and curls into a ball upon his right side, the way I'd always known him to do many years ago at Hogwart's. How he manages to sleep without an aching back had always astounded me. I close my eyes against a stinging familiarity, a swell of ache within my heart, and it is only Remus' gently breathing presence that keeps me from shouting, or worse, breaking into tears.  
  
~*~  
  
Opening my eyes to the haze of a shuttered, sleepy morning, I find myself lying uncomfortably on my side, my right arm pinned beneath me at an odd angle and numb to the touch. My other arm, to my surprise, has somehow looped itself around Remus' waist during the night, and he sleeps curled into a warm ball against me.  
  
With a groan, I carefully extract my arm from around Remus and stretch out my back before sitting up. Remus stirs at the movement, and, shivering in the morning's cold, I settle the blankets atop him. As my arm begins to throb again, a prickling sensation returning in a hot flood, I rise to my feet and pad towards the door.  
  
Although the air is cold, the morning sun is warm upon my face when I make my way outside. Buckbeak is still asleep, his head nestled beneath his wing, and I notice with a small degree of relief that he hasn't yet gnawed through the rope that tethers him to the great tree. For the moment contented, I close my eyes, lean back, and tilt my face towards the breaking sun and wait for either Remus or Buckbeak to awaken.  
  
Perhaps half an hour passes when the door opens and Remus, clad in the same loose, linen pants he'd worn to bed, staggers out the front door with an audible yawn. Eyes half open, he falls heavily to the step beside me and passes me one of the two steaming mugs that he holds in his hands.  
  
"If I'd known you were coming, I'd have bought cream and sugar," he murmurs, bringing his own mug of coffee to his lips as if it were a lifeline of sorts. "Sorry, you'll have to take it black."  
  
"Pun not intended?" I ask. The corners of my lips twitch briefly upwards, as if attempting the beginnings of a smile that simply cannot bring itself to fruition.  
  
"Mmh," is all he grumbles in response. Even as a Hogwart's student, Remus had never been much of a morning person, to put it nicely.  
  
"You've become quite the addict, I see." There. A wry smirk manages to affix itself to my lips, and I cannot help but think it must be a scary sight indeed, given that I've barely cracked a smile in over thirteen years.  
  
Remus either doesn't notice, or doesn't care either way. "There are certainly worse vices," he mutters from behind the rim of his mug.  
  
"But why ~coffee~, Remus? Whatever happened to the boy that couldn't start his morning without a proper cup of Earl Grey?"  
  
"That boy grew up," he says groggily, leaning forward to scritch the head of the tortoiseshell cat purring at his ankles. "Yes, yes, Natasha. You'll be fed as soon as I've managed to wake up some."  
  
"I'll feed her, Remus. It's the least I can do," I say, setting aside the unpalatable coffee and rising to my feet.  
  
"Quite the spoiled little queen, are we?" Remus says with a soft, groggy laugh as his cat bounds towards my feet and rubs herself against my ankles. "She gets half a cup of the dry food. Don't let her trick you into giving her anything else."  
  
The cat follows fast at my heels, her yellow eyes following me expectantly through the claustrophobic hallway into the deteriorating kitchen. As I scour through the sparsely laden pantry, I wonder how Remus might expect me to feed the cat anything other than that -- there's barely enough food within to feed a child, let alone two full grown men. I suddenly understand Remus' embarrassment last night when I'd asked for something to eat -- he'd virtually nothing to offer me. I understand why he seems to have grown gaunter since our last meeting, even when he had always been in the prime of health just prior to the full moon. He is almost as starving as I am.  
  
After filling Natasha's dish with her breakfast and giving the madly purring creature a scritch behind the ears, I return to the outside stair and immediately pick up my mug of coffee, sugar or no sugar. Remus has been gracious enough to provide me with all that he has, and I refuse to be ungrateful for his hospitality.  
  
Remus has awoken more fully, and he seems to have realized where he'd sent me while still too groggy to think straight. He stares at me, eyes wide and apologetic, as I sit beside him once again. "I -- I'm sorry," is all he can manage to murmur.  
  
Stunned and saddened, I can find nothing to say to him in response, and instead I rest a hand upon his shoulder as he stares miserably into his mug of coffee.  
  
...tbc... 


	2. ~2~

"Chiaroscuro"  
  
by s1ncer1ty  
  
Author's Notes: Part 2, a little more slashy, a little more angsty, but a little more cute. Hooray!  
  
~*~  
  
i gave my heart and soul to the one...  
  
we spend all of our lives  
  
going out of our minds  
  
looking back to our birth  
  
forward to our demise  
  
~~ Live, "They Stood Up for Love"  
  
~*~  
  
"That's it. Just step onto the mat. The door will open on its own."  
  
Remus murmurs quietly in my ear as I hesitate before the 'automatic door,' as he calls it, of the Muggle shopping market. With a gentle nudge upon my back, he urges me forward, mindful of the crowd of Muggles steadily expanding behind us as they seek to enter the building. My shoulders stiffen, yet I know enough to stifle my gasp of surprise, as I step upon the black mat, and the door opens of its own volition.  
  
"This is queer, Remus. Very queer," I grumble in a hushed voice, walking swiftly through the door and glaring at it suspiciously behind me.  
  
"Just follow my lead," he repeats for what seems like the fiftieth time today.  
  
A stack of red basket-like crates sits in a pile just beyond the 'automatic door,' and Remus grabs one from the top of the stack and hands it to me. For a moment, I stare at the odd metallic handles, wondering exactly how I'm going to carry this thing, and then I sling it upon my shoulder as if I were holding a box.  
  
With a quiet laugh, Remus gently pulls my hand forward, so I am carrying the red crate by the handles before me. "It's a basket," he intones in a hushed voice, his eyes darting to the Muggles who have turned to look at us questioningly. "Hold it by the handles, like that."  
  
"I shouldn't have come," I mutter with steadily mounting impatience. The flow of Muggles around me as they stream through the plaza makes me twitchy. They're already staring at us like some sort of oddity in the Magical Creatures division. Although Remus has had some experience in dealing with the Muggle world, he still isn't completely versed; and the ill-fitting 'jeans' and 'tee-shirts' we wear somehow don't match for men our age among Muggles. I pull at the collar of my 'tee-shirt' -- emblazoned with an unnaturally unmoving portrait of some 'punk music band' -- feeling constricted and itchy all at once.  
  
"No, you should know how to do this. There's no telling how long you'll be staying with me, and you may have to do this for yourself," he says calmly, though also somewhat distantly.  
  
"You make it sound like a prison sentence," I grouse.  
  
"Now, stop that, Sirius --"  
  
"Don't ~call~ me that when we're in public!" My fingers suddenly circle Remus' slender arm and squeeze hard. I'll give the man credit -- he neither winces nor voices any pain I might be causing him, and only stares at me hard in return.  
  
"And you'll want to let go of my arm, unless you want even more attention drawn to yourself," he says evenly, although there is a hint of sternness in his tone. "There may be no Ministry wizards about for miles, but if you cause a scene, we may have to answer to Muggle authorities."  
  
My eyes darting about me swiftly, I release Remus' arm as I realize that several more Muggles have paused in their shopping to stare.  
  
"I'm sorry," Remus says quietly, shrugging off my anger. "That was careless of me."  
  
The corners of my lips twitch faintly upward, and I follow him with the basket as he leads the way down an aisle packed with food -- food that we must find for ourselves, like primitive gatherers. "You're forgiven. And I apologize for my temper."  
  
"I've forgiven you for your temper years ago, my friend," Remus says, again smiling easily. How he recovers so quickly is astounding. I might not have forgiven myself quite so easily if I were in his place.  
  
I follow fast on Remus' heels as he strides with more confidence than I had thought possible for a wizard down the unfamiliar and claustrophobic aisles of the Muggle market. Periodically, he stops and places a can of food or a loaf of bread into the basket in my hands. Though frowning in concentration, I don't stop to question his actions -- everything appears fairly self-explanatory, if unfamiliar -- the cans of peas have unmoving pictures of peas on them; the bags of rice are emblazoned with the word 'RICE' across the front.  
  
"Say, Remus," I ask as he pauses at a stand filled with what appears to be cheese. "How do you intend to pay for this?"  
  
Remus flushes, and he busies himself with placing a pre-wrapped block of cheddar into the basket and avoiding my eyes. "It will be paid for. Not to worry."  
  
I lift an unconvinced eyebrow, yet speak no more on the matter as he completes his shopping quickly, just as eager as myself to leave the market and disappear from the mass of Muggles entirely. Remus skirts down aisles, picks out apples, dried pasta, jars of red and white sauce, water in see- through bottles. After an eternity of weaving through impatient Muggles with oversized baskets on wheels, Remus heads to the front of the market and, after standing uncomfortably in a Muggle-filled queue, places the food from the basket onto a platform that again startles me as it moves on its own.  
  
But Remus is unconcerned with the whirring apparition that the Muggles use in place of magic. As our 'groceries' slide down the moving belt, he places them in thin, crinkling bags. And when the Muggle 'cashier' demands payment -- in an unfamiliar denomination called 'pounds' -- Remus pulls from his pocket several colorful, folded strips of paper and hands them over.  
  
Hurrying from the store, each of us carrying several bags of food in those painfully thin bags, I lean over and whisper to Remus, "Where did you get Muggle money?"  
  
"I didn't," Remus remarks guiltily. "It's just parchment, enchanted to look like Muggle money. The spell will fade in about a week."  
  
Blinking in surprise, I say, "Why haven't you used that spell before? Why live the way you do, with nothing to eat in your house, if you can conjure money?"  
  
"I ~can't~ conjure money, that's the thing," he says as we hurry through the parking lot, the bags of food hanging heavily in our arms. "I don't like to cheat the Muggles, even if they are gullible, if I can help it. It's not right."  
  
"But somehow today is different?"  
  
"Today I have a guest who needs to eat much more than I do," Remus says softly.  
  
"I beg to differ. I have my way of...catching food as the need arises as Padfoot. When was the last time you had a decent meal?" I demand, looking to his hollowed cheeks, the steady discoloring of his hair so it is now, despite his young age, almost completely grey.  
  
"A full meal? Tonight will be the first time in a while," he responds in a calm tone. "I do, however, eat when I can."  
  
As I open my mouth to respond, the sarcastic comment fades in mid-thought as the glimmer of chrome catches my eye. Passing a well-kept motorcycle in the market's parking lot, my thoughts turn from Remus to my own bike that I was forced to leave behind in the flight to fulfill my duty to Dumbledore. The motorcycle is merely a common Muggle vehicle, and it would take an immense amount of charm-work to make it fly, but the temptation of the sun glittering off the chrome and the memory of the wind ripping through my hair is almost too much to bear.  
  
"Well, Remus, what do you think?" I ask, turning to my companion. "This will beat walking the distance back to your house any day."  
  
"I think your fascination with Muggle vehicles is disquieting," he says. The lines on his forehead deepen, and he adds, "You're not thinking of taking this motorcycle, are you?"  
  
"Why is there such a problem? You steal all the time, from what I saw back at the Muggle market."  
  
"It's one thing when it's a matter of getting the next meal on the table. But when it comes to items of extravagance, it's not right to be taking from innocent Muggles."  
  
"These creatures are hardly innocent, dear Moony," I return, casting a dark gaze towards the tangle of Muggles mobbing in and out of the shopping center like ants to a carcass. "Besides, what if it is a matter of survival? We may well need something less conspicuous -- and dare I say, less alive -- where we're to be sent. Buckbeak might not cut it as transportation."  
  
"I have a broomstick--"  
  
"But ~I~ don't," I interrupt, snapping an annoyed look to Remus. "You don't expect two grown men to squeeze onto a second-rate broomstick and have it leave the ground, much less reach where we need to go?"  
  
Remus laces his arms across his chest, nonplussed by the stream of insults directed towards him. "Then Hagrid has not given you back your old motorcycle?"  
  
"Yes, yes," I say impatiently, resting my hand upon the leather seat of the Muggle motorcycle. "But I couldn't take both with me. It was either the motorcycle or Buckbeak, and I certainly couldn't leave Buckbeak on his own. He's a fugitive as well."  
  
"I suppose you didn't think of needing 'unliving' transportation for wherever Dumbledore sends us next when you made that decision?"  
  
Smirking very faintly, I sling my leg over the seat and clasp the handlebars with familiarity. "No, I can't say I did," I say with a shrug. "Come on, Remus. Hop aboard. We'll be home before you can say 'alohomora.'"  
  
But Remus shakes his head with a vague smile. "I prefer to walk. I'll meet you back at the house." Shifting the heavy bags of groceries in his hands, he turns from me and begins walking away.  
  
Remus' action is like a shot of cold water to my face, more stinging than if he'd slapped me. For a moment, I sit quietly atop the seat of a motorcycle that isn't mine. The Muggle owner would certainly miss such a prized possession, one obviously kept in immaculate condition. I feel a momentary surge of regret as I turn my eyes towards Remus as he quietly turns his back to my actions -- he's right, as was often the case when we were young. Stealing food is one matter, while stealing a motorcycle is another issue entirely.  
  
With reluctance, I dismount from the shiny motorcycle, dimly thinking that the Muggle owner had ~better~ take good care of it, and dash to catch up with Remus at the edge of the parking lot where we begin our plodding trek towards home.  
  
"I suppose," I say after several blocks of grudging silence, "if we needed the motorcycle that badly, we could both fly out on Buckbeak to where it's hidden. You could ride Buckbeak home, while I take the bike."  
  
Remus merely smiles, murmuring, "Yes, I suppose we could do that." His grin is an easy one, gentle, with a warmth that almost seems to radiate through my time-frozen heart.  
  
~*~  
  
Perhaps we cannot completely afford to, but for one evening, Remus and I make certain to eat well, vowing to be more frugal after a single extravagant meal. Remus lets me nowhere near the kitchen as he conjures a feast reminiscent of old times at Hogwart's, and so as he busies himself preparing pasta and sauce, bread and salad, I make my way down the porch to where Buckbeak is tethered. Bowing low to him, I give him a great chunk of raw steak, bought specifically for him at the Muggle-mart. At first he eyes it with imperial disdain, until I mutter to him beneath my breath.  
  
"It's the most you've had in a while. It might not be a fresh kill, but it's meat. Don't turn your nose up at it -- it's rude."  
  
Buckbeak glares at me coldly, but is soon tearing strips of flesh with his sharp beak and wolfing each piece down. I sit beside him and lean back against the trunk of the tree, content just to feel the wind on my cheeks and through my hair.  
  
At some point, perhaps minutes later, perhaps hours, Remus emerges from the humble shack he calls home and falls to the ground beside me. Cracking open my eyes, I see that he's since changed out of those horrid Muggle rags and has again dressed in a proper robe. For a moment, it's enough to see the evening threads of fading sunlight filtering through his hair, and the quiet smile upon his face. But then the scent of the supper he's brought out in a basket with him reaches me, and my heart nearly shatters with joy. I deserve none of this -- the companionship, the great meal, the fine shelter. With a wave of his wand, Remus brings a plate of pasta and sausage, thick bread and butter, to me, and again -- alarmingly -- I feel the maddening urge to weep.  
  
"Are you going to sit there staring at your food all evening?" Remus whispers conspiratorially. "You should eat, before it gets cold."  
  
"I believe I had better eat," I return, shaking out of the daze of thoughts. "You might end up trying to steal from my plate when you're done with yours."  
  
For a time, dining together with Remus beneath the setting sun, I forget myself, all thoughts of the impending danger against the entire wizarding community, all concerns for my godson Harry pushed far into the back into my mind. I even manage, briefly, to laugh.  
  
As we finish our meal, each of us making completely certain to leave nothing behind, even for Buckbeak, we lapse from casual conversation to silence. And, watching the sun begin its descent into darkness, the melancholy that seems to surround Remus like a blanket grows all the more pronounced. The immense contentedness fades into concern, especially as I find the once-companionable glitter in Remus' grey eyes has grown chilly and distant as he gazes towards the horizon.  
  
"Hey," I awkwardly interject into the silence. "You're preoccupied."  
  
Remus raises his brows and attempts a smile. "Perhaps just a little."  
  
"What gives?"  
  
"Sirius," he murmurs, reluctantly, "do you know what tomorrow night is?"  
  
I frown a little in confusion, and shake my head.  
  
"Tomorrow night's the full moon." His voice is barely audible, filled with regret, and an overwhelming hesitation.  
  
"So soon? I thought we had at least one more night before..."  
  
"You never did follow your Astronomy charts very well," Remus says with a wry laugh and a grin that doesn't reach his grey eyes.  
  
"What does this mean?" I ask. In our conversations since I arrived yesterday, he has never once mentioned the current state of his lycanthropy, nor how he has handled it over the years.  
  
"You'll probably want to leave for a time. I usually lock myself in the storm cellar, but I want to be on the safe side." He laughs once, a harsh sound like a bark from his chest. "I've not the skill to brew the Wolfsbane potion, and Severus was not quite so generous as to leave me with an extra cauldron of it."  
  
For a moment, I stare at him with all incredulousness. "I don't believe what I'm hearing from you, Remus. Do you really think I will leave you to your transformation alone?"  
  
"I... didn't know," he replies thinly, as if he were holding his breath. "I didn't feel it was my place to ask. It has been over thirteen--"  
  
"Who needs some slimy potion from that big-nosed traitor, anyway?" I interrupt, more than a little bitterly as I change the subject. "He was probably just trying to poison you."  
  
"It was helpful," Remus admits. "The Wolfsbane potion is a recent development. It helps me keep the dementia at bay. Tonight, I won't be safe. I won't have my mind."  
  
"Remus," I state, more seriously now, holding his gaze level with my own, "I kept my mind for thirteen years in Azkaban. I have more than enough will to hold you together for three mere evenings. You don't need any potion, especially from Snape."  
  
"Will you run with me tomorrow?" Remus whispers.  
  
"What did I just tell you?" I say with a very faint smirk and a roll of my eyes. "Of course I'll run with you."  
  
"It's been so long," he says wistfully. "Moony and Padfoot, together again." Leaning across to close the distance between us, he rests a hand upon my shoulder, and his smile widens. "Thank you."  
  
I don't precisely know why I do it -- some way, somehow, it just feels ~right~ -- but I place my hand atop his own as it touches my shoulder. His fingers are as rough and callused as mine with the weight and wear of years. Remus appears briefly surprised, but relaxes against my touch...and my sudden need, after so many years secluded in blackness, to be close to someone.  
  
As the silence stretches in leagues between us, I draw Remus to me and slip my arm about his shoulders. He says not a word, but instead just settles quietly into the crook of my arm as if he were made to fit there. I hold him, resting my chin against the top of his head, feeling the greying hairs tickle my cheeks as the wind rifles through it. And in those moments, the world again seems well, even if just for a few fleeting moments.  
  
~Tomorrow night, together, we run, my friend.~  
  
~*~  
  
The next day passes with relative calm. After morning coffee, Remus and I untether Buckbeak and lead him about the woods, even though the Hippogriff clearly longs to fly. Conversation grows gradually easier, as we avoid painful topics such as Voldemort, the potential plans of Dumbledore, the dangers that follow fast on the heels of Harry Potter and his friends. But most of all, we steer fully clear of any conversation that hints at the night ahead of us, and the impending full moon.  
  
He cooks, and I do the dishes. I take great care not to disturb the boggart under the sink.  
  
Yet as night draws near, Remus steadily becomes all the more distant, despite my awkward attempts to distract him. After a coldly silent evening meal, he lies down upon the couch in an attempt to rest before the rising of the moon, and I clean up the remnants of supper in the cramped, Muggle- style kitchen. Yet after the last dried plate has been put away carefully into his well-ordered cabinets, I emerge from the kitchen to discover that the faded, threadbare couch is empty, Remus nowhere to be found.  
  
After a brief, quiet search of the house, I eventually find him standing at the bottom of the stairs leading from the front porch, his arms crossed before him within his shabby, overly darned robes. The gathering fog of evening, rolling through the Nottingham forest and spreading across the land, has begun to gather in his hair like a net of fine mist, making it appear almost completely silver. He does not turn as I join his side, but the barely audible hiss of breath makes it evident that he is aware of my approach.  
  
I rest a hand upon his shoulder, and he relaxes into my grasp. "Remus. It's getting chilly out. Come inside."  
  
"I'm not cold," he says, even though I can feel his shoulders shivering beneath my hand.  
  
"It's no use brooding. The moon will rise whether you wait for it or not."  
  
"Yes, Padfoot. I know."  
  
"Moony..."  
  
He turns to me, and the mist that has gathered in his hair spreads, spills down the curling ends in several tear-like droplets. Grey in his hair, grey in his eyes as they tilt up to mine. Suddenly, anything and everything I might have said is lost upon my lips, dashed free from my mind with the strength of a memory-eradicating charm. And I know that, beneath a gaze both questioning and in full understanding, I need not say anything more.  
  
Before I know it, my lips are upon his, meeting with his warmth and sweetness. I feel his chest flutter against mine as he draws a shuddering breath, and I slide my arm around his back to bring him closer. It is all that I want now, to be so close to Remus, to feed upon his very tenderness and to make it mine. Remus slides his left hand to the base of my neck, and I part my lips to his lightly probing tongue, his almost deceptive gentleness.  
  
Slowly, I draw away from him, sealing the gesture with a last, swift peck upon his lips. I realize as I gather him into my arms that his shivering has ceased, and beneath the mist gathering as the evening threatens to give way to night, and to the zenith of the full moon, we hold each other in quiet sympathy.  
  
"What was that for?" Remus finally asks, voice nothing more than a whisper.  
  
"I -- I don't know."  
  
"Oh."  
  
I pull away from him, brushing a strand of hair from his face as he looks up at me. The water spills from my fingertips, and although I find the right words in my mind, they refuse to push past my stubborn, stammering lips.  
  
~Because it kills me to see you so sad, Moony. Just knowing that you face tonight with such fear... I had to find some way to tell you that it's okay to be afraid. Because I know no other way to tell you...~  
  
Remus smiles, and, as if reading the very thoughts that circle through my mind, he says, "I understand."  
  
"Do you mind?" I whisper roughly. "I -- really don't know what this means."  
  
"Ssh," he whispers, fingers gently urging my head to his shoulder, as the tables unexpectedly turn, and he keeps my own trembling at bay beneath the golden halo of the setting sun.  
  
~*~  
  
Remus sits upon the battered mattress situated in the dank storm cellar, pale and pensive. The room has very obviously fallen victim to his violent transformations -- as in the Shrieking Shack of years ago, it bears the telltale signs of clawing upon the furniture, the dents upon the bedframe from where it had been flung in rage, the blood upon the mattress and spattered in the corners. I dimly wonder if the blood belongs to Remus or to some other creature -- either option makes me feel nauseous.  
  
The tiny, mildewy cellar holds a single window, one obviously scratched at fruitlessly during one or more of Remus' transformations, and the blinds remain firmly drawn atop them. Through the gaps, I can see the darkness beyond, and the silvery beams of light from a moon that Remus so detests.  
  
"It's time, Moony. We can't delay the inevitable."  
  
Remus closes his eyes, deep wrinkles of worry and shame lining his forehead. I swallow the urge to kiss them away, knowing that, even with the shades drawn, the lure of the moon can bring out the beast at any volatile moment.  
  
"You'll forgive me, of course, if I don't hold your hand?" I ask instead with a wry smirk.  
  
"I won't," Remus says, though with a shaky grin. "But I suppose I will have to cope."  
  
"Seriously, though, Moony," I add, my expression sobering as I reach for the shuttered blinds. "Are you ready?"  
  
Remus takes a deep breath, and when his eyes re-open, their grey depths betray a cold determination and an inherent strength to see himself through yet another wrenching transformation. "Yes, Padfoot. Open the blinds."  
  
"Remember, Moony, I'll still be here when you wake up."  
  
"I know," Remus whispers through clenched teeth.  
  
With a swift yank, I pull the shades to the side in a clatter of blinds, allowing the silvery glow of a brilliant full moon to cascade through the secluded room. Remus cries out almost immediately, a sharp wail as the moonlight tears into his thin frame and wrenches out the agony of shapeshifting. I hear his bones snapping, the ripping of sinew, and his keening cry drops and deepens into a wolfish howl within seconds.  
  
~You don't deserve this, old friend. I would take all of your pain upon myself in an instant if I only could.~  
  
I drop to my knees, swiftly muttering an awkward incantation beneath my breath, and I feel the familiar melting of my skin, the sprouting of hair where none grew before and the reforming of my bones as I'm forced onto four feet. My transformation into Padfoot is never as agonizing as Remus' shapeshifting, and my guilt grows more exacting as, through sharp eyes and pricked ears, I experience his invariably horrifying change for the first time in many years.  
  
When his howls have dwindled to mere whimpers in the back of his throat, a great wolf stands before me, his sides shivering as he pants from the exertion of shapeshifting, yet he holds his tail erect. As ever, he is instantly recognizable, if a little greyer in the pelt, and I know that he recognizes me. He bristles momentarily, a low growl building in the back of his throat, until I lower my back and ears, slinking closer to the ground in an age-old indication of submission before nuzzling my nose against his muzzle.  
  
~Moony. Padfoot. Together again.~  
  
My tail begins to wag at an apparent acceptance, and I lean forward in an awkward sort of bow. Moony crouches low before springing towards me with a yelp from the back of his throat, and together we roll atop each other, nipping gently at each other's pelts. Although the weight of years and the wasting apathy of Azkaban has slowed me immensely, I chase him in circles, and he dashes after me in return. As the sole surviving Marauder of old, it is my sworn duty to keep the wolf at bay, a responsibility I accept without question or doubt.  
  
And in this small, cramped storm cellar in the countryside of Nottingham, we play -- Moony and Padfoot, together -- circling the small room in a game left unplayed for years, until hours later we are spent with exhaustion. Together, two great canine beasts, we curl up beside each other and fall into a slumbering, warm sleep.  
  
I dream of green fields, and running, running, a rabbit before me and a great grey wolf beside me. ~Running.~  
  
~*~  
  
I awaken only once near the crack of dawn, as the light of day staves off the terror of the full moon, and a persistent sniffling pulls me from dreams. Remus lies sprawled upon his side, naked and human once more, his back shivering with pain. I melt back into the gangly, weary form of Sirius Black, and carefully slip my arm around his bare chest.  
  
"Ssh," I whisper as his hands flutter to his face, and he struggles weakly to pull away. The exquisite pain of the transformation has driven him to tears. "Sleep, Moony."  
  
"I'm so cold..."  
  
Taking great care not to hurt him further, I wrap myself, warm and secure, around his chilled body and press a gentle kiss to his wet cheek. "I'm here."  
  
It takes a long while, but the tears upon his cheeks eventually dry, and his trembling trails off into sporadic shudders before ceasing entirely. Dimly, even as sleep begins to grab hold of me again, I wonder how I managed to survive thirteen long, arduous years at Azkaban. I wonder how Remus survived thirteen long years of believing his best friend a traitor to his own kind. I wonder how we had ever gotten along without closeness, without companionship, without even a single reassurance or truthful word.  
  
And as sleep claims me once again, I nestle my face against Remus' shoulder, knowing that I cannot bear to be parted now that we've come so close to completion.  
  
It might not be enough, and it might not be the answer, but for the first time in over thirteen years, I know for certain that it's a start.  
  
...owari... 


End file.
